The Red Room - August Strindberg (best summer reads TXT) 📗

which read as follows: “Although we never shared the opinion of our art critic with regard to Mr. Sellén’s justly praised landscape, yet we cannot altogether agree with the judgment of our respected correspondent; but as, on principle, we open our columns to all opinions, we unhesitatingly printed the above article.”

The ice was broken. Struve, who had the reputation of having written on every subject⁠—except cufic coins⁠—now wrote a brilliant critique of Sellén’s picture and signed it very characteristically “Dixi.” The Grey Bonnet was saved; and so, of course, was Sellén; but the latter was of minor importance.

XI Happy People

It was seven o’clock in the evening. The band at Berns’ was playing the “Wedding March” from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, when to the accompaniment of its inspiriting strains Olle Montanus made his entry into the Red Room. None of the members had yet arrived. Olle looked imposing. For the first time since his confirmation he was wearing a high hat. He was dressed in a new suit, and his boots were without holes; he had had a bath, had been newly shaved, and his hair was waved as if he were going to a wedding. A heavy brass chain ornamented his waistcoat, and his left waistcoat pocket bulged visibly. A sunny smile lit up his features; he radiated kindness; one might have thought that he wanted to help all the world with little loans. Taking off his overcoat, no longer cautiously buttoned up, he took the centre of the sofa in the background, opened his coat and tugged at his white shirt front so that it rose with a crackle and stood out like an arch; at every movement the lining of his waistcoat and trousers creaked. This seemed to give him as much pleasure as the knocking of his boot against the leg of the sofa. He pulled out his watch, his dear old turnip, which for a year and a month’s grace had been in the pawnbroker’s hands, and the two old friends both seemed to enjoy its liberty.

What had happened that this poor fellow should be so inexpressibly happy? We know that he had not drawn the winner in a lottery, that he had not inherited a fortune, that he had not been “honourably mentioned,” that he had not won the sweet happiness which baffles description. What had happened then? Something very commonplace: he had found work.

Sellén was the next to arrive. He wore a velvet jacket and patent-leather boots; he carried a rug, a field-glass on a strap, and a cane; a yellow silk handkerchief was knotted round his throat; his hands were covered by flesh-coloured gloves and a flower blossomed in his buttonhole. He was, as usual, cheerful and calm; his lean, intelligent face betrayed no trace of the emotions undergone during the last few days.

Sellén was accompanied by Rehnhjelm; the lad was unusually subdued; he knew that his friend and patron was leaving him.

“Hallo! Sellén,” said Olle, “you are happy at last, aren’t you, old chap?”

“Happy? What nonsense you are talking! I’ve sold a piece of work! The first in five years! Is that so overwhelming?”

“But you must have read the papers! Your name’s made!”

“Oh! I don’t care the toss of a button for that! Don’t imagine that I care for such trifles. I know exactly how much I still have to learn before I shall be anybody. Let’s talk of it again in ten years’ time, Olle.”

Olle believed half of what Sellén said and doubted the rest; his shirt front crackled and the lining creaked so that Sellén’s attention was aroused.

“By the Lord Harry!” he burst out, “you are magnificent!”

“Think so? You look like a lion.”

Sellén rapped his patent-leather boots with his cane, shyly smelt the flower in his buttonhole, and looked indifferent. Olle pulled out his watch to see whether it was not yet time for Lundell to arrive, which gave Sellén an opportunity of sweeping the galleries with his field-glass. Olle was permitted to feel the soft texture of the velvet coat, while Sellén assured him that it was an exceptionally good quality at the price; Olle could not resist asking the cost. Sellén told him, and admired Olle’s studs, which were made of shells.

Presently Lundell appeared; he, too, had been given a bone at the great banquet; he was commissioned to paint the altarpiece for the church of Träskola for a small sum; but this had not visibly affected his outward appearance, unless, indeed, his fat cheeks and beaming face hinted at a more generous diet.

Falk was with Lundell. He was grave, but he rejoiced, in the name of the whole world sincerely rejoiced, that merit had found its just reward.

“Congratulations, Sellén!” he said, “but it’s no more than your due.”

Sellén agreed.

“I have been painting just as well these last five years and all the world has jeered; they were still jeering the day before yesterday, but now! It’s disgusting! Look at this letter which I received from the idiot, the professor of Charles IX!”

All eyes opened wide and became keen, for it is gratifying to examine the oppressor closely, have him⁠—on paper at least⁠—in one’s hands, at one’s mercy.

“ ‘My dear Mr. Sellén,’⁠—Fancy that!⁠—‘Let me welcome you among us’⁠—he’s afraid of me, the blackguard⁠—‘I have always appreciated your talent’⁠—the liar!⁠—let’s tear up the rag and forget all about him.”

Sellén invited his friends to drink; he drank to Falk, and hoped that his pen would soon bring him to the front. Falk became self-conscious, blushed and promised to do his best when his time came; but he was afraid that his apprenticeship would be a long one, and he begged his friends not to lose patience with him if he tarried; he thanked Sellén for his friendship, which had taught him endurance and renunciation. Sellén begged him not to talk nonsense; where was the merit of endurance when there was no other alternative? And where was the virtue in renouncing what one had no